


for all this pantomime, you should see the state i'm in

by thisismy_design (thisismydesignn)



Category: The Following
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Serial Killers, Sex, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 17:09:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismydesignn/pseuds/thisismy_design
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luke and Mark and the bruises that encircle Heather's neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	for all this pantomime, you should see the state i'm in

**Author's Note:**

> Not completely happy with this, but figured I would share nonetheless because this fandom _needs_ some fic for these two. They're fascinating.
> 
> Warning: hints at necrophilia, though none takes place. (Also, run-on sentences.)
> 
> Title from "Skin" by Poets of the Fall.

It’s Mark who talks his way into Heather’s apartment, all charming smiles and soft-spoken praise. It’s Luke who takes her life, fingers wrapped around her throat, Cheshire Cat grin and murmured encouragement until she goes still. Mark watches, his turn to sit on the sidelines, fingers twitching with desire; he contents himself with curling them around Luke’s arms once the deed is done, pressing his brother into the mattress and slipping his tongue into his mouth.

They fuck with Heather’s body still beside them, still warm, knees and knuckles grazing her skin as they moan in unison, breathless with laughter and satisfaction.

“I don’t want to have sex,” Mark tells Heather later, as Luke, ever so restless, explores the apartment. “I’m not opposed to it,” he explains, because he’s not— imagines how open she’d be, so _willing,_ and shivers— “but it’s not as important as people make it. I think touching’s more important.”

(Luke is the exception, the two tangled up and twisted for as long as he can remember— but then, Luke is every exception.)

Mark cooks them breakfast, pouting when Heather doesn’t touch her food. Luke eats every bite and leaves thumb-shaped bruises along Mark’s hips, and for a moment, they forget the girl altogether.

Mark lets Luke drag him into the living room, perching on the couch beside Heather as his brother switches on the stereo and starts to dance. He laughs as Luke pulls the girl up and against his body, swaying back and forth none too gently. She’s like a broken doll in his arms, but then, Luke’s never been too careful with his toys.

Leaving them to their dance, Mark goes to do some exploring of his own. Opening Heather’s drawers, her closet, he runs a hand over the clothing with a contented sigh, and can’t help but grin when his fingers catch on the white dress. It’s _perfect_ for her, their Gwendolyn: spectral and haunting, she’ll be a vision, and Hardy won’t be able to resist. (And, well. That’s only the beginning.)

By the time Mark is finished making her up, she could nearly be alive, gorgeous and glowing. He can’t help but trail his fingers over her perfectly porcelain neck, retracing the bruises that linger beneath layers of concealer, though he resists the urge to press down.

“Soon,” a voice whispers in his ear and he turns to see Luke at his side, towel draped low on his hips as he pushes his dripping hair back and smiles sharply. Mark wants to feel those teeth on his neck, on his chest, but instead he grips Luke’s wrists, leaving smears of red and black makeup across clean skin as he kisses him hard, hungry.

He steps back before he can get carried away, though he doesn’t speak— but then, they’ve never needed words to communicate, and the way Luke trembles under his touch tells Mark all he needs to know. Stepping under scalding water, he tries to remember how to breathe; tries to remember why he cares.

“I need some help with Heather,” he hears minutes later, head tilted back, eyes shut against the spray. He shuts it off without a moment’s hesitation and reaches for his towel, wrapping it around his waist absentmindedly. He’s somewhere else, distracted, but the sound of his brother’s voice is all it takes to wake him up. Pulling back the shower curtain, he catches sight of Luke in the mirror and shivers. His half-smirk, the way his eyes travel over Mark’s bare torso, appreciative: it’s too much, and he looks away, looks back.

“How you feelin’?” Luke asks, uncharacteristically _caring,_ and Mark smiles too wide, fidgeting with his hair, his towel, anything to keep his hands to himself. “Awesome,” he responds, stepping toward his brother, “It’s been a great day.”

“Yes it has,” Luke tells him, and then he’s crowding Mark against the counter, pressing close as he takes back the kiss Mark stole, hips slotting together perfectly the way only theirs can. Fingers lace into damp hair, just this side of too rough and Mark hates, _hates_ that he has to be the one to pull away, tasting Luke on his lips and wanting more, just— _more._

“Later,” he allows as Luke tries to tug him forward again; Mark laughs and disentangles himself, though he can’t stop his gaze from lingering over his brother’s lips.

“Promise?” and Mark can’t resist, brushes his smile over Luke’s pout, whispers, _“Promise,”_ takes him by the hand and pulls him into the bedroom where Heather _(Gwendolyn)_ lies, their masterpiece, their new start.

“You ready?” Luke asks, but he already knows the answer. He looks down at Heather even as his fingertips linger over the bruises that decorate Mark’s stomach, his hips, a souvenir neither of them wants to fade; Mark tugs at Luke’s necklace and rests his head in the crook of his brother’s neck, listening for the thud of his heart. They stand too close to the bed, Heather’s legs brushing their own, and this time she’s cold to the touch.

They reach down to take her hands, and still they don’t notice.

After all, Mark’s gaze is molten lava; Luke’s smile, nothing short of wildfire. Joe Carroll be damned— all they want is to see the world come undone, and they’ll gladly set it ablaze themselves.

(This is only the beginning.)


End file.
